HALO: Aim High, Dig Deep
by Electromotive Force
Summary: Stationed in Africa near the town of Voi, a small squad of Marines providing communications support to UNSC VIPs start detecting spurious transmissions. Upon investigation, they uncover something strange beneath the African sands. Something...legendary.
1. Ascent, Descent

**Ascent, Descent**

The Human race always sought to create or attain frivolty. Even in the direst of times, people out there lusted for luxury. Why?

Was life really that hard? Was life really that boring?

Like a steak that requires seasoning?

A Gunnery Sergeant wondered this while he ran a bare palm over the plush leather of the rear bench seat, so smooth and supple. His weight seemed to sink into it just a little, and while comfortable, he didn't like it. He preferred a seat to hug his torso close so that he may brace for a hard turn when it came.

The Doctor riding shotgun took notice of him inspecting the leather-wrapped cushion and said, "Feel free to use any of our utility vehicles during your stay here. They are quite nice, yes?"

"It's a fine vehicle."

"We have two color choices: black or white. Which would you prefer?"

"Actually, there's no need, Doctor. We'll be just fine with our own. Thank you for the offer anyway."

"Why do you refuse the offer?"

"We have a hog en route, and that's really all we'll need."

"Ah yes, the M12-LRV Warthog. Which model did you bring with you?"

"Judging by your tone it seems you don't respect it, Doctor."

"Oh no...I do. But why not treat yourself to a little luxury during your stay here? Our sport utility vehicles have all the brawny attributes of your hog, and more. And everyone knows that you Marines, of all people, deserve more."

"Well, thank you yet again, Doctor. But like I said: the hog is all we'll need to get the job done."

"Suit yourself, Gunnery Sergeant."

"...I will." he mumbled. The Sarge looked out the heavily-tinted window and was met with a face full of pitch blackness. He sighed.

"Allow me." the Doctor said, again taking notice of the Sarge's disposition. The windows instantly turned clear, revealing the parking garage that they sped through. The Doctor caught a sort of muted, subtle surprise out of the Gunnery Sergeant's features. Maybe a light raise of the brow and pinch of the lip. "Smart Glass." the Doctor said. "We've installed it on every vehicle in our fleet. Spared no expense."

The Doctor's words apparently fell on deaf ears as the Sergeant stared blankly out his window. The parking garage was empty. Not a vehicle or person in sight, which was strange in itself. The civilian SUV sped a half-circle around the entire level of the structure and finally worked its way around to a ramp in the middle leading up, doing so again and again as they ascended level by level at a madman's speed. Though the Marine didn't notice, the driver grinned in delight as he pushed the capabilities of the vehicle's suspension to its limits, tires screeching and rubber bushings groaning from underneath the chassis at every single maneuver they were put through. He was putting on a show of sorts for the Doctor and his military guest. Gradually, the ambiance became brighter with a natural luminosity. Not the kind of fluorescence that dotted the areas around the elevators at the corners of the building. Sunlight permeated through the uppermost levels and meandered its way lower. They were close to the rooftop now. The Gunnery Sergeant prepared for the dismount and was actually rather eager to commence the mission, like he always was. It was his bread and butter. His livelihood.

They finally broke through the last gripping line of darkness from the level below, and emerged into a searing, African sun. The Marine sergeant breathed a little deeper the cool crispness of the vehicle's climate-controlled air. The driver finally slowed the vehicle to a reasonable speed and soon stopped on the crunchy gravel surface. A sunroof opened above their heads and slid far back into the roof panel, so far back that all three occupants had a clear view of the pale-blue skies—cast in an altostratus veil miles above. But they were not here to sightsee or hang around to stargaze; their sights were fixed on a black spec high above. "God, I love this part." The sergeant said.

"I can understand that." said the driver, his eyes never once averting from the incoming pelican drop ship.

It descended ever downward, seemingly at a snail's pace. But looks were deceiving. Their perceptions were off because of the sheer distance it was from them, and the actual rate of descent it executed. For though it had been in their sights for the last minute now, it somehow swooped down all at once—as if the pilot up there had decided to land the vessel that very instant.

The pelican seemed to plummet directly on their rooftop position, but slammed to a halt merely thirty meters above their heads like it was directed by the hand of God himself. Maybe it was, because UNSC pilots were the best and brightest pilots the human race had ever known. They were highly disciplined, highly trained, and damned proud of what they did and how they did it. They, and their pelicans, were practically the workhorses of the operational UNSC—at least at a tactical level.

"If you could start over in the military," the Doctor began to ask, "would you train as a pilot?"

"I'm where I am for a number of reasons." The sergeant said stoically. "All of which I am thankful for. I wouldn't change a thing about my life or my military career."

The Doctor grunted in approval, once again glancing at the drop ship still hovering.

"Go ahead and land her on the helipad, pilot." The Sergeant said over a Land Mobile Radio.

"_Roger." _He received.

The pelican began its final descent not a moment later.

It slowly sunk into the sweltering hot haze that was the rooftop ambiance. As it came within a stone's throw from touchdown, the ventral VTOL thrusters kicked up a massive plume of dirt and debris from all around it, displacing it all in every possible direction—including towards the SUV the three men occupied. The Marine sergeant grinned as the Doctor cringed, the fine _and _coarse pebbles impacting the beautiful lines of the vehicle's contours and its beautiful, 3-stage paintjob. Pinging was all that could be heard besides the pelican's hover jets. The Doctor was visibly stirred by the tarnishing of the once pristine condition of the SUV.

Soon after, the pelican's skids softly mated with the raised helipad surface and the thrusters spun down to a whisper. The sergeant was the first to exit the vehicle, followed by the Doctor. The driver preferred to stay inside while the other two conducted their business in the oppressive, late morning heat.

They both proceeded closer to the drop ship as the aft door opened, revealing the inside of the rear cargo hold. A small squad of Marines held the interior, seated on either side of the loading area. Between them were ruggedized transit cases, pallets, and large boxes containing advanced telecommunications and navigational equipment—all painted in the ever-familiar olive-drab motif of the Marine Corps. Stenciled on every surface of the equipment enclosures, in military-grade black paint was the acronym "TDC". It stood for Theater Deployable Communications. Thick, sturdy tie-down straps looped up and over, around and between, every piece of equipment, anchoring every non-human object to D-rings recessed into the floor of the hull. The humans themselves were restrained in their seats with 5-point camlock harnesses. One by one, they each gave a twist of the camlocks and free they were to stretch out after the long ride. They were eager to start the mission as well. And Master Gunnery Sergeant Fontaine was grateful for that. Appreciative, too. He might have the mind to grant them some comp time after this mission was over. But the mission hadn't even really begun yet. At least not the summative part of it, anyways. Rewards would come later. The time to act was now.

"Listen up, Marines: we've got a busy schedule ahead of us, you know the drill. This is the same as every setup we've done, but now the big wigs are watching. Let's show them how TDC does the job, hoo-rah?"

In unison, his troops gave the idiomatic gung-ho reply of, _HOO-RAH!_

"—That's what I like to hear." He continued. "I'd like to have comm. up and running by seventeen-hundred tonight. From there, we can grab some chow and hunker down for the night. Keep an eye on each other in this desert heat. Drink plenty of water and take breaks if you need to. I'll see you all at fifteen hundred for your sit-rep. And it's good to see you all. Now move like you gotta purpose!"

With that, Sergeant Fontaine's men all scrambled into action.

As if reading the Doctor's mind, the Sarge turned towards him. "I have a few things we need to go over, Sergeant."

**Author's Note: Per my latest update and from the info currently on my profile page, I mentioned I wasn't going to have much time to work on my writing. Well, it is true. This, however, is the weekend. I am taking this opportunity to start a fresh story while I formulate ideas for my others in bits and pieces. From this story's summary, it's pretty obvious what the overall plot will be, but I hope to put my little EmF twists into it so that you can enjoy! So gimme some feedback and review it. Take care and stay tuned.**

**-EmF**


	2. Comm ex

**Comm-ex**

"What did you have for me, Doctor?"

"Just a few things that will help you during your stay here, as well as some…how do you Marines say…Rules of Engagement?"

"Okay."

"As you know, the satellite relay has to be on top of this structure, for obvious reasons."

"Obviously."

"It's a nuisance for us too, believe me, Sergeant. Nevertheless, feel free to come and go throughout the entire complex as you please. Don't let the isolation of this building keep you from the rest of the facilities. Speaking of which, we are situated over thirty hectares of desert plains, most of the facility underground. You'll find adequate shelter and leisure at sub-complexes A, B, and C. Anything you need, we have. Just make sure you stay away from all entryways to sub-complex Omega. Its access is highly restricted and I'm afraid you and your squad will be on non-authorized access status, permanently. So, just don't venture there. One of my aides will send you a base map over an encrypted link shortly, complete with all applicable facilities you might wish to visit here. Do you have any questions?"

Sergeant Fontaine looked side to side, rather amused. "No. You covered it well. I'll let you know."

"Very well. Thank you in advance for your invaluable service to this outpost. I'm sure talk of your expertise and professionalism will travel far up the chain of command from here. Good day."

The Doctor offered a curt nod before turning and walking towards the glossy-black SUV they arrived in earlier. The sun was slowly waning as the troops got on with their setup. Sergeant Fontaine basked in the sunlight only for a moment, letting the warming rays bathe his half-obscured face as the SUV behind him slowly and silently sauntered over the rooftop gravel, and back into the labyrinth parking garage from whence it emerged.

He took his mirrored glasses off. They were non-regulation. Even still, certain indiscretions could be gotten away with on TDY assignments. They were light-minutes away from their chain of command with Fontaine in charge. Plus, any other UNSC that was stationed here was most likely underground—with their own missions and their own troops to supervise. And Sergeant Fontaine's squad was a tight-nit one—that knew each other and got along well. They had each other's backs. On the other side of the coin however, was the very fact that he led troops—some practically fresh out of boot—that he had to set the example for.

He took them off for exactly two reasons.

One: failure to uphold standards of military dress and appearance—no matter how small the infraction—would set an unwanted example for the men under his command. It would start with something small like glasses, and then it would snowball into something greater. And greater, and greater. Sergeant Fontaine was in this profession longer than most of these kids had lived. Hell, he had boots older than some of them. So he knew the score. He already knew what was going through some of their heads at this point: sandy, sunlit vacation on Earth. With extra pay and bonuses that came along with it. They could finish the equipment setup today and then bask in leisure tomorrow. And sure, there was always the time for goof-off and play and leisure. But only unless the mission was in the green. Fontaine would accept absolutely zero risk that threatened a mission—nothing more to it than that. There was little time to waste right now to boot. So…

Two: he also took his glasses off so he could absorb just a little more sun before digging in himself. He wasn't the typical senior enlisted leader; he wasn't above working alongside his subordinates. So off he went towards the pelican, soon carrying off supplies, opening and inspecting them.

The sun was out in full force today, with humidity upwards of 70. This meant everyone in Sergeant Fontaine's squad sidelined themselves at least every thirty minutes for water and a brief rest in the shade of the pelican's spacious cargo bay, detracting from the mission and their goal—to have comm. fully up and running by 1700 local. It was a realistic goal, but equally challenging with this austere, desert environment.

This temporary duty assignment was a good way to get their feet wet. Much better, at least, than deploying to a hot combat zone with little to no advanced notice and performing their duties there. The new trainees would be more of a hindrance than a help in that scenario. And here on Earth there was little worry about Covenant or URF. This was a cake-walk detail, the ideal training exercise. Everyone wished this TDY could last forever, but alas, it was only for 1 month. Thirty days, and they were back to home station and God knows what else. Sergeant Fontaine knew they wanted their comp time, and their nights out and about while they had it good here. And he couldn't deny them this; everyone needed their release. So, at times he'd have to play the lenient parent. Keeping good order and discipline was _his _challenge during their stay here. So, at times he'd also have to play the good Shepard. These were of the basic tenets of enlisted leadership. And with some of the Marines he'd recently received into his unit, it would indeed be a _real _challenge. But luckily, he had a pair of stellar NCOs to assist him. And they'd be here any minute now.

He took a break from unloading supplies from the pelican, and walked to the northernmost edge of the rooftop. Far out into the barren desert plain, he could make out the cracked lands starved for any sort of liquid, the soothing grasslands too far beyond reach, the brooding cliffs that surrounded the valley…and the majesty of mighty Mount Kilimanjaro in the backdrop—so far away yet in your face when you took it in. Once again, he was not here to sightsee. His sights were quickly fixed on the approaching warthog. It was just an ant from where he was, crawling, with a plume of dirt drifting lazily upwards behind the vehicle's solid rubber wheels as it sped the valley floor. Sergeants Woltering and Hailey would soon arrive and the hog would certainly make light work of their already grueling setup in the over-intrusive sun. Plus, it was their only vehicle to use for purposes other than work. Sergeant Fontaine sensed a slight pang of regret at turning down Doctor Sumaya's offer to use the facilities vehicles, but the hog was probably all they'd need. Plus, taking up the generous offer meant more liabilities. They'd have to care for it, fuel it, and ultimately, use government money to do so—which wasn't specified in TDC's orders to this assignment. That would technically make using the civilian vehicles illegal. Good thing for Sergeant Fontaine, now that he had some time to think about it.

But now, he was distracted. He proceeded towards the setup site again, which still baffled him—why here? He was here himself weeks prior to today to perform the site survey, in which he would take in geographic attributes of the area. Things like obstacles in the way of their transmit/receive path, nearby sources of interference, and weather conditions. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why the Doctor had insisted on him setting up shop on the roof of this employee parking garage. There were locales better suited for the job. But the Doctor had convinced the Sarge, to a degree, that placing the link at ground level would be unfavorable for his mission. Doctor Sumaya advised that there were sources of interference too close to a ground-placed satellite shot. Apparently, the whole volume of all underground structures were encased in an EMI-resistant shell of brass and lead, and there were power stations everywhere. Low-loss power lines, high-density capacitors on the order of decafarads, and RF radiation underground that would play havoc on TDC's sensitive electronics. Sarge didn't really see the fuss, his equipment being highly ruggedized and intended for the wartime environment—in which electronic warfare and jamming were taken into design considerations. But this wasn't his house. Doctor Sumaya called the shots on this turf.

After all was said and done, the rooftop may have been a better outcome after all. They had their own space, free of local distractions; they had all the resources they needed and if they wanted recreation, Alpha, Bravo and Charlie installations were only a few stories down; and this unforeseen "isolation" was the ideal team-building experience for the men.

Things were running smoothly so far in Sergeant Fontaine's mind.

**Author's Note: First of all, thanks to those who have reviewed this story and/or placed this story on other special "identifiers". Thank you very much. I'm very pleased with the level of recognition so far, and I intend to deliver in the coming chapters. So keep 'em coming and stay tuned.**

**-EmF**


	3. The Setup

_**The Setup**_

Sergeant Fontaine readily pitched in with his troops when it came time to roll out the diesel-powered generator. All the other supplies had been removed from the rear bay of the pelican, normally mean to contain troops and the bare necessities for combat—like weapons, ammunition, and small carry-on items. All that was missing was the warthog. He brought his left wrist to bear in front of his face. He flipped open the thick, rubber dust cover over his watch: 1545.

He frowned at what he read. Already, they were behind the power curve he intended to keep. But only by a little. There were inevitably hiccups in a mission. You just had to plan for them and accept them. Furthermore, you couldn't dwell on the setbacks. You had to keep moving. Sergeant Fontaine thought about what else they could be accomplishing right now, instead of just waiting.

"You three," he said, pointing at the closest individuals to himself, "Open the tripod case...and start setting up…over there. I've marked a delta where we're shooting from."

"Aye sir," Lance Corporal McKenzie shouted. Three Marines grabbed a long, rectangular transit case and hauled it a few meters away—over to a trio of RFID beacons set in a perfect equilateral triangle into the roof material beneath the gravel.

The Sarge couldn't tell, but he was pretty sure McKenzie was the ranking individual of the three he picked for the side job. And although the generator represented the team's most pressing priority right now, the setup of the tripod assembly was paramount. It was the foundation of the satellite dish they were to erect. Actually, every single piece of equipment they brought with them was critical to the success of their mission. They brought spares for certain sensitive items, as any sharp squad would, but some things couldn't be replaced—at least not without waiting for shipment to come in to their location. And the nearest TDC depot was on another continent. It would be at least one day before any delivery could be made with the exact parts they needed. Nonetheless, Sergeant Fontaine's team was ship-shape. Except for maybe one troop that just came in from Boot. He wasn't too sure about Private DeLaney. As a matter of fact, Sarge just now caught the young Marine standing by the side of the pelican, looking down dubiously with both hands in his pockets.

"Private." the Sarge said firmly. He waited for acknowledgement.

DeLaney looked up and into the Sarge's eyes. "Huh?"

"Take your hands out of your pockets."

"But Sarge, there's no one but us up here." he said, glancing about the perimeter of the expansive rooftop.

"There's always someone watching, Private. Always."

Before complying, a weak sneer was all that could be detected from the Private.

"Why don't you go and be a safety observer for those three setting up the dish."

DeLaney didn't say a word, but he did comply. Reluctantly.

Once the Private was out of the Sarge's sight, he looked at his watch again. Muttering to himself: "They should've been here by now."

As if on cue, stepping into view was the pelican's pilot. "Hey Sergeant, I've got a schedule to keep. When are we gonna get this thing outta my ship so I can takeoff?"

Trying to speak as diplomatically as possible, Sergeant Fontaine responded, "Just a few more minutes and the remainder of our team will be here. Just a few minutes."

A huff was all that could be heard from the aviator, as he walked back towards the cockpit.

The hog was pivotal in the team's success. The generator sitting inside the pelican was large and extremely heavy. Add troops and supplies to the list, and the equipment manifest was just barely tipping the scales of the ship's weight limit. Luckily, the pilot loved beer from Earth…and Sarge made sure that the man would get his cut for what could be considered a class I safety negligence.

Just then, the whine of a military-spec all-terrain vehicle could be heard echoing from beneath the service ramp that led to the rooftop. Suddenly, the hog emerged from the tip of the ramp slope, catching a few inches of air before jouncing into the soft gravel rooftop below. The vehicle instantly darted towards their direction, and after momentarily coasting, it stopped just aft of the pelican's cargo ramp with its nobby tires bitting into the surface. Three occupants dismounted.

Staff Sergeant Mick Woltering—the driver—removed his helmet, revealing a full head of threadlike, white hair. He looked a little paler than usual, but maybe that was just the African sun at its finest. Woltering was actually born in Alaska, the only man in Fontaine's squad born on Earth. Some of the men thought that Eskimo was in his blood, him being so white.

Staff Sergeant Cody Turnbull stepped down form the passenger seat. There wasn't much to say about Turnbull, because he never really talked. And he had his reasons for it.

Sergeant Ace Jefferson jumped down from the tri-barreled turret of the warthog, with surprisingly more bounce in his already bouncy step. He was everyone's favorite character. He was a spunky, young kid with a lot to learn, even if he made it to sergeant. He was the typical 'Marine's Marine', a crack shot and a weapons expert…but not very savvy with tact or composure. His uniform was usually a mess and he always needed reminders to keep his hair within regs. Maybe this was why Fontaine subconsciously didn't want him being anyone's supervisor just yet. But at least he was trustworthy and obedient, unlike how DeLaney proved to be thus far.

Fontaine met them halfway. "Took you mockers long enough."

"Sorry, Sarge." Woltering offered, placing his helmet back on his head. "We ran into a few bumps in the road early on."

"What bumps? It's desert plains out there."

"Not the kind of bumps you're thinking, Sarge." Ace said with his usual cocky grin. Woltering glared at him for an instant.

"Just a minor setback, that's all." Woltering corrected. "Everything is still a go. Are we ready to roll out this generator?"

The Sarge looked the three of them up and down. "If you say you're green, then we're going. I don't want to know what kind of trouble you got into. I know you're a speed demon on the open road, so I won't even ask. Now…let's get to it."

"Aye sir!"

Woltering hopped back in the driver's seat, and Turnbull and Jefferson stood by Fontaine as he called to McKenzie and his helpers, "Hey! Get back to the pelican. Time to roll out the generator."

McKenzie and Esquada double-timed it back to the rest of the squad, but DeLaney quietly strolled. The Sarge frowned at this. But he'd have to address it later.

Once everyone was finally ready, the Sarge hooked up a tether from the hog's winch to the tow hook welded on the generator. The hog could manhandle that gargantuan around no problem. The problem was: keeping it upright and from tipping over. That's where the rest of the team came in. They were there to keep it sturdy with their hands. The damned thing had no casters, so it couldn't be simply pushed into position. It was actually designed to be parachuted into a hot zone. The squad had requested a different model variant way in advance of this mission, but there were none available. None that they needed. This was the best bet they had.

So, the hog slowly backed away, the rigid base of the generator grinding against the deck plating of the pelican's rear cargo ramp. The pilot winced in reply from the side.

As the generator began to lean forward with the downward slope, it nearly lost balance and almost tipped on two Marines. Jefferson jumped up and grabbed a hold of the other side of it, his weight just enough to steady it back squarely to the ramp with a _thud!_

"Shit, that was close." Someone said.

"Lucky Ace was there, yet again to save the day." Jefferson said, his voice doped in arrogance.

"Whatever, Ace." Woltering replied.

"Knock it off." Sergeant Fontaine shouted. "Keep your eyes and ears on what matters."

The generator reached the end of the pelican's ramp, and stopped once mated at the rooftop. Now the generator was sitting at 30 degrees—dead. A cold, green lump. Useless.

Jefferson once again jumped up and grabbed onto the top girder of the hulking metal, grunting. "I can't do this myself!"

"Yeah, he's a lightweight." Woltering said through a grin.

"Shut up and put some more weight on this thing!" Jefferson grunted again.

One by one, more and more troops put weight on the rear of it, tripping it ever so slightly upward. Once enough clearance was attainted between the forefront of the generator and the flat rooftop surface, Sergeant Woltering gave a slip of the throttle and the hog yanked itself, the generator, and all the Marines hanginf from it, off the ramp of the pelican with the winch cable pulled taught. Only a few throttle pedal inputs by Woltering and they were clear of the ship.

"Thank you." the pilot said sarcastically.

"Enjoy your brews!" Fontained hollered as the pilot sealed himself in the cockpit.

They all stepped back and covered their eyes as the pelican begain its departing ascent, soon flying through the heavens overhead—gone for good with a fading roar.

"That does it, then." Sergeant Fontaine whispered. "Let's finish the setup and get comm. up and running. It is now 1600. That leaves us one hour from our original goal. Let's see it done, gents. Before sundown gets here."


End file.
